Part 5

I've watched you now a full half-hour, Self-poised upon that yellow flower; And, little Butterfly! indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! Not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees And calls you forth again. This plot of orchard ground is ours; My trees they are, my Sister's flowers; Here rest your wings when they are weary; Here lodge as in a sanctuary! Come often to us, fear no wrong; Sit near us on the bough! We'll talk of sunshine and of song, And summer days when we were young; Sweet childish days that were as long As twenty days are now.

But the golden window at which Geoffrey sat was in Monmouth, and he was called Geoffrey of Monmouth. That was some seven hundred years ago. No doubt the little town was very busy even in 1137 when Geoffrey sat at his window and wrote his famous chronicle called _British History_.

Before Geoffrey began to write down his marvelous stories, other stories and poems were written. In King Alfred's time, when the home of English literature was shifted from the north to the south, two fine battle songs were written. They were the "Song of Brunanburh" and the "Song of the Fight at Maldon." These were written in the tenth century. "The Charge of the Light Brigade," composed some eight hundred years later by the poet Tennyson, is like these old songs in its short, rapid lines and in its thought. Every one should learn these lines from the poem Alfred Tennyson wrote:

Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. "Forward the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!" he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

"Forward the Light Brigade!" Was there a man dismayed? Not tho' the soldier knew Some one had blunder'd: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

But we have been long enough away from that golden window by which Geoffrey of Monmouth sat and wrote his immortal stories. Geoffrey was called a chronicler. And what he was supposed to be doing was jotting down accurately historical events year after year. Some of the chronicles written in this way have become the chief sources of English history. Among the men who wrote these chronicles were William of Malmesbury and Matthew Paris. And between them came Geoffrey himself.

It will never be known, unless it should prove possible to roll time back some seven hundred years, just what Geoffrey did see from his window as he looked out upon the busy town of Monmouth, or all that went on in his nimble mind. In any event it is plain that he had the best of good times inventing or retelling stories in his chronicle. There is to be found the story of King Lear and his three daughters, Regan, Goneril, and Cordelia--Lear, the hero of Shakespeare's play, "King Lear," written over four hundred years later. There, too, is the story of Ferrex and Porrex. Geoffrey had a nimble quill pen with which to follow his nimble wit. He writes of Julius Cæsar and of how he came to Great Britain. What Geoffrey of Monmouth says may be ridiculous enough in the light of history, but there it is, and there is Cæsar himself, not only looking upon the coast of Britain but actually standing upon it. We become familiar, too, with many names known in stories about King Arthur. Perceval is one of these. And Uther Pendragon, who was the father of King Arthur, is another.

One of the marvelous facts about Geoffrey is that when he looked out of that golden window he could see so much farther than just Monmouth. He could see all the way to the sea, and on its shores that beautiful city Tintagel, where Queen Igraine, the mother of Arthur, lived. But in Geoffrey's chronicle she was called Igerna. A name is sometimes like a long, long journey, not only in its romance, but also because it takes you to other lands and other people, and passes, even as the road upon a long journey, through many changes.

* * * * *

Geoffrey saw from his golden window not only Tintagel, that beautiful South Welsh city by the sea, but also a little village in North Wales called Beddgelert. This little village is set down in the midst of mountains like a lump of sugar in the bottom of a deep cup. Outside this little village is a hill called Dinas Emrys. Geoffrey looked northward out of his golden window in Monmouth, and what do you think he saw? He saw the magician, Merlin, the youth who had never had a father. And this lad was quarreling with another lad in Caernarvon, a Welsh city thirteen miles away from the little village of Beddgelert.

Now Vortigern had been attempting to build a tower on Dinas Emrys, but whatever the workmen did one day was swallowed up the next.

Then some wise men said to Vortigern: "You must find a youth who has never had a father. You must sacrifice him and sprinkle the foundations with his blood."

So Vortigern sent men to find a boy who had never had a father and who should be brought him that they might kill him. When Vortigern's messenger reached Caernarvon, thirteen miles away from Beddgelert and the hill Dinas Emrys, they found two boys playing games and quarreling about their parentage. And one of them, Dabutius, was accusing the other, Merlin, of having no father. They took him to Vortigern.

And Vortigern said, "My magicians told me to seek out a lad who had no father, with whose blood the foundations of my building are to be sprinkled to make it stand."

"Order your magicians," answered Merlin, "to come before me and I will convict them of a lie."

It is a terrible thing to be convicted of a lie, and of course the magicians did not wish to come. But King Vortigern made them come and ordered them to sit down before Merlin.

Merlin spoke to them after this manner: "Because you are ignorant what it is that hinders the foundations of the tower, you have told the King to kill me and to cement the stones with my blood. But tell me now, what is there under the foundations that will not suffer it to stand?"

To this they gave no answer, for they were frightened.

Then said Merlin, "I entreat your Majesty would command your workmen to dig into the ground, and you will find a pond which causes the foundations to sink."

This the King had done, and a pond was found there.

Then said Merlin to the King's magicians, "Tell me, ye false men, what is there under the pond?"

But they were afraid to answer.

Merlin turned to King Vortigern and said, "Command the pond to be drained, and at the bottom you will see two hollow stones, and in them are two dragons asleep."

The King had the pond drained, and he found all just as Merlin said it would be. And as the King sat on the edge of the drained pond out came the two dragons, one red and one white, and, approaching each other, they began to fight, blowing forth fire from their nostrils. At last the white dragon got the advantage and made the red dragon fly to the other end of the drained pond.

When King Vortigern asked Merlin to explain what this meant, Merlin burst into tears.

Then commanding his voice, he spoke: "In the days that are to come gold shall be squeezed from the lily and the nettle, and silver shall flow from the hoofs of bellowing cattle. The teeth of wolves shall be blunted and the lion's whelps shall be transformed into sea-fishes."

And unto this day nobody knows exactly what Merlin meant, or what Geoffrey thought he meant, although there has been much guessing.

* * * * *

Geoffrey must have been very fond of looking out of his window and seeing Merlin, for many a story he tells about him. There is the story of how Merlin helped to remove the stones of the Giants' Dance from Ireland. Giants of old had brought them from the farthest coast of Africa. They were mystical stones and had value to heal and cure men. When these stones were found too heavy to be lifted by human hands, Merlin found a way, nevertheless, to lift them. Then the stones of the Giants' Dance were carried across the sea and placed in England at Stonehenge. It is an exciting story Geoffrey tells about the Giants' Dance, yet I fear we know no more really how the big stones got to Stonehenge than we know about the ribs of our solid earth. Certainly those stones were set up in Stonehenge even before men began recording history or Geoffrey of Monmouth sat in his golden window.

And there is the story of the 40,060 kings who never existed--which is more almost than ever did exist. And of the coming of St. Augustine to England, bringing with him the gentle religion of Christ.

It would be very nice if all this about Merlin and the dragons and the Giants' Dance were what might be called true history. Alas, it is not! In the first place, Geoffrey tells stories which vary greatly from what was actually known to be history. Then, too, this chronicle is full, as you have seen, of miraculous stories of one sort or another. And there are other reasons, also, why these delightful stories of Geoffrey of Monmouth must be taken with a pinch of salt.

But it is because Geoffrey did sit at his window in the little town of Monmouth, writing these stories which have to be taken with a pinch of salt, that English story-telling began to grow. Geoffrey's imagination was to English story-telling what the sunlight is in making a tulip grow. Story-telling grew out of the Chronicles, the so-called historical literature. The men of Geoffrey's time said that "he had lied saucily and shamelessly." No doubt he had. Yet these same men could not help reading the stories he told, for they were so interesting that all men read them. What he had done was to take several Welsh legends, put them together cleverly, as a carpenter joins a delicate bit of woodwork, translate these Welsh legends into Latin and call the work a Chronicle. Not only was it read in England, but it was read all over the continent of Europe, too. It had great success.

Geoffrey Gaimer put these stories into French. The stories traveled to France. Once there, other legends were added, and when Geoffrey's Chronicle turned up again in England it came back as the work of Wace, a Norman trouveur, or ballad-singer. But Geoffrey's stories were too good to let drop even after they had been through so many hands. An English priest in Worcestershire by the name of Layamon, translating the French poem which Wace had made out of Geoffrey's prose stories, retold the stories in English poetry. That was in 1205, after Geoffrey had died.

Geoffrey of Monmouth must have been very happy as he sat in his sunny, golden window and heard about the tales he had written there. He must have chuckled many a time over what the world had made out of his nimble story-telling wits. English literature could not be at all the same, in either prose or poetry, if it were not for that golden palace door over which was written _Welsh_ or that window upon the stairway where Geoffrey sat.

But it was the Normans who brought the taste for history with them to England in 1066, when they conquered the land which had been King Alfred's land. It was some time before the Normans became what we call English in their feeling. Probably the Normans would never have become so strongly English in feeling if English patriotism, even after the conquest of 1066, had not remained very much alive. The English had written down in English some of the proverbs of their former King Alfred. The parents of the chronicler, William of Malmesbury, were both English and Norman. And, strangely enough, Layamon's "Brut" is not unlike the poetry of the cowherd Cædmon, the first of the great English singers, the first of English poets.

Perhaps this very hour the sun is shining down upon that golden window of Geoffrey of Monmouth, and laughing for joy because the man who "lied so saucily" was the first of the great English story-tellers.

X

A FAMOUS KITCHEN BOY

Geoffrey's window is a very fascinating place to be--possibly the most interesting window the world has ever seen. It is not just one lifetime which has found that window interesting, but more lifetimes than we can count comfortably. Sir Thomas Malory, who wrote his _Morte d'Arthur_ in 1469, fairly lived in that window; so did Shakespeare when he wrote "King Lear" in 1605, and even the modern poet, Alfred, Lord Tennyson, who wrote "The Charge of the Light Brigade," composed a series of poems called "Idylls of the King," which return for their sources through Malory to Geoffrey at his window.

There is one story, however, which Geoffrey did not see as he looked out of his golden window--the story of the famous kitchen boy, or "Gareth and Linet." This tale is found in Sir Thomas Malory's _Morte d'Arthur_, which was not completed until 1469, many years after the writing of Geoffrey's Chronicle in 1147. Clear and sunshiny is the English of this wonderful book of Malory's, and nowhere in the world can more beautiful, exciting, and marvelous stories be found than between the covers of the _Morte d'Arthur_. The _Morte d'Arthur_ was written about twenty years after the invention of printing by Coster and Gutenberg. Sixteen years after the completion of the book by Malory, Caxton printed it in black letter in English. There is only one perfect copy of this book by Caxton, the first of the English printers, and that is in Brooklyn, New York. In the preface which Caxton wrote for the _Morte d'Arthur_, he says that in this book will be found "many joyous and pleasant histories, and noble and renowned acts of humanity, gentleness and chivalries.... Do after the good and leave the evil, and it shall bring you good fame and renown." Certainly that is what the kitchen boy did, and it brought him to good fame.

* * * * *

It was one day when King Arthur was holding a Round Table court at Kynke Kenadonne by the sea. And they were at their meat, three hundred and fifty knights, when there came into the hall two men well clad and fine-looking. And, as the old story says, there leaned upon their shoulders "the goodliest young man and the fairest that ever they all saw, and he was large and long and broad in the shoulders, and well visaged, and the fairest and the largest-handed that ever man saw, but he fared as if he might not go or bear himself--"

The two men supported the young man up to the high dais upon which Arthur was feasting. When the young man that was being helped forward was seen there was silence. Then the young man stretched up straight and besought Arthur that he would give him three gifts.

"The first gift I will ask now," he said, "but the other two gifts I will ask this day twelve months wheresoever you hold your high feast."

"Ask," replied Arthur, "and you shall have your asking."

"Sir, this is my petition for this feast: that you will give me meat and drink enough for this twelvemonth, and at that day I will ask mine other two gifts."

"My fair son," said Arthur, "ask better. This is but simple asking."

But the young man would ask no more. And when the King, who had taken a great liking to him, asked him for his name, the young man said that he could not tell him.

The King took him to Sir Kay, the steward, and charged him to give the young man the best of all the meats and drinks and to treat him as a lord's son.

But Sir Kay was angry, and said: "An he had come of gentlemen, he would have asked of you horse and armor, but such as he is, so he asketh. And since he hath no name, I shall give him a name that shall be Beaumains, that is Fair-hands, and into the kitchen shall I bring him, and there he shall have fat brose every day, that he shall be as fat by the twelvemonth's end as a pork hog."

And Sir Kay scorned him and mocked at him. On hearing this both Sir Launcelot, the greatest of the Knights of the Round Table, and Sir Gawaine were wroth and bade Sir Kay leave his mocking.

"I dare lay my head," said Sir Launcelot, "he shall prove a man of great worship."

"It may not be by no reason," replied Sir Kay, "for as he is so hath he asked."

Beaumains, or Fair-hands, was put into the kitchen, and lay there nightly as the boys of the kitchen did. The old book says: "He endured all that twelvemonth, and never displeased man nor child, but always he was meek and mild. But ever when he saw any jousting of knights, that would he see an he might."

Sir Launcelot gave him gold to spend, and clothes, and whenever the boy went where there were games or feats of strength he excelled in them all.

But always Sir Kay would taunt him with these words spoken to others, "How like you my boy of the kitchen?"

And so Fair-hands, the kitchen boy, continued in service for a year. At the close of the year came a lady to the court and told about her sister who was besieged in a castle by a tyrant who was called the Red Knight of the Red Laundes. But she would not tell her name, and therefore the King would not permit any of his knights to go with her to rescue her sister from the Red Knight, who was one of the worst knights in the world.

But at the King's refusal, Beaumains, or Fair-hands, as he was called, spoke, "Sir King, God thank you, I have been this twelvemonth in your kitchen, and have had my full sustenance, and now I will ask my two gifts that be behind."

"Ask, upon my peril," said the King.

"Sir, this shall be my two gifts: first, that you will permit me to go with this maiden that I may rescue her sister. And second, that Sir Launcelot shall ride after me and make me knight when I require it of him."

And both these requests the King granted. But the maiden was angry because, she said, he had given her naught but his kitchen page.

Then came one to Fair-hands and told him that his horse and armor were come for him. And there was a dwarf with everything that Beaumains needed, and all of it the richest and best it was possible for man to have. But though he was horsed and trapped in cloth of gold, he had neither shield nor spear.

Then said Sir Kay openly before all, "I will ride after my boy of the kitchen."

Just as Beaumains overtook the maiden, so did Sir Kay overtake his former kitchen page.

"Sir, know you not me?" he demanded.

"Yea," said Beaumains, "I know you for an ungentle knight of the court. Therefore beware of me."

Thereupon Sir Kay put his spear in the rest and ran straight upon him, and Beaumains came fast upon him with his sword in his hand. And Beaumains knocked the spear out of the knight's hand and Sir Kay fell down as he had been dead. Beaumains took Sir Kay's shield and spear and rode away upon his own horse. The dwarf took Sir Kay's horse.

Just then along came Sir Launcelot, and Beaumains challenged him to a joust. And so they fought for the better part of an hour, rushing together like infuriated boars. And Sir Launcelot marveled at the young man's strength, for he fought more like a giant than like a knight. At last he said, "Fight not so sore; your quarrel and mine is not so great but we may leave off."

"Truly that is truth," said Beaumains, "but it doth me good to feel your strength, and yet, my lord, I showed not the most I could do."

Then Sir Launcelot confessed to Beaumains that he had much ado to save himself, and that Beaumains need fear no earthly knight. And then Beaumains confessed to Sir Launcelot that he was the brother of Sir Gawaine and the youngest son of King Lot; that his mother, Dame Morgawse, was sister to King Arthur, and that his name was Gareth.

After that Launcelot knighted Gareth, and Gareth rode on after the maiden whose sister was kept a prisoner by the Red Knight.

When he overtook her she turned upon him and said: "Get away from me, for thou smellest all of the kitchen. Thy clothes are dirty with grease and tallow. What art thou but a ladle-washer?"

"Damosel," replied Beaumains, "say to me what you will, I will not go from you whatsoever you say, for I have undertaken to King Arthur for to achieve your adventure, and so shall I finish it to the end or I shall die therefor."

Then came a man thereby calling for help, for six thieves were after him. Even when Beaumains had slain all the six thieves and set the man free from his fears, then the maiden used him despicably, calling him kitchen boy and other shameful names.

On the next day Beaumains slew two knights who would not allow him and the maiden to cross a great river.

But all the maiden did was to taunt him. "Alas," she said, "that ever a kitchen page should have that fortune to destroy even two doughty knights; but it was not rightly force, for the first knight stumbled and he was drowned in the water, and by mishap thou earnest up behind the last knight and thus happily slew him."

"Say what you will," said Beaumains, "but with whomsoever I have ado withall, I trust to God to serve him or he depart."

"Fie, fie, foul kitchen knave," answered the maiden, "thou shalt see knights that shall abate thy boast."

And so she continued to scold him and would not rest therefrom. And they came to a black land, and there was a black hawthorn, and thereon hung a black banner, and on the other side there hung a black shield, and by it stood a black spear great and long, and a great black horse covered with silk, and a black stone fast by.

And before the Knight of the Black Lands the maiden used Beaumains despicably, calling him kitchen knave and other such names. And the Black Knight and Beaumains came together for battle as if it had been thunder. After hard struggle Beaumains killed the Black Knight and rode on after the damosel.

"Away, kitchen boy, out of the wind," she cried, "for the smell of thy clothes grieves me."

And so ever despitefully she used him. Yet he overcame the Green Knight, who was the brother of the Black Knight, and spared his life at the maiden's request.

And it was after the vanquishing of the Green Knight that they saw a tower as white as any snow, and all around the castle it was double-diked. Over the tower gate there hung fifty shields of divers colors, and under that tower was a fair meadow. And the lord of the tower looked out of his window and beheld Beaumains, the maiden, and the dwarf coming.

"With that knight will I joust," called the lord of the tower, "for I see that he is a knight errant."

And before the knight the maiden used him despitefully.

And ever he replied, patiently, "Damosel, you are uncourteous so to rebuke me, for meseemeth I have done you good service." Then did the heart of the maiden soften a little.

"I marvel what manner of man you be," she said, "for it may never be otherwise but that you come of a noble blood, for so shamefully did woman never rule a knight as I have done you, and ever courteously you have suffered me, and that comes never but of gentle blood."

"Damosel," answered Beaumains, "a knight may little do that may not suffer a damosel. And whether I be gentleman born or not, I let you wit, fair damosel, I have done you gentleman's service."

She begged him to forgive her, and this Beaumains did with all his heart.

Then they met Sir Persant of Inde, who was dwelling only seven miles from the siege, and the maiden besought Beaumains to flee while there was yet time. But he refused.

And when Sir Persant and Beaumains met they met with all that ever their horses might run, and broke their spears either into three pieces, and their horses rushed so together that both their horses fell dead to the earth. And they got off their horses and fought for more than two hours. And Beaumains spared his life only at the maiden's request.